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I'd like to preface by saying that, while I've had some racier moments and swear like a goddamned sailor, this particular post is NOT SAFE FOR WORK. Or children. Or even me, really. My mind is numb with cocks at this point. Not cartoon cocks. I'm talking porn cocks. Juicy porn cocks, to be precise.

I'm getting ahead of myself.

Did you happen to read the story that's taking over the internet today, regarding the Applebee's waitress who was fired for her post on Reddit? Well, I did. And I think it's absolute horseshit. If you're too lazy, the short version is that some bitch, a pastor, no less, went to Applebees to gorge herself on sizzling shrimp or some shit. Despite the fact she had no complaints about the service she received, this is the receipt received by the waitress:

(above: Christian values)

I'd start to list the infinite reasons that this woman's hypocrisy and douchebaggery fill me with rage, but I'm pretty sure my skull would explode. After my coworkers and I had a nice ranting sesh, I decided to go sass the Applebee's Facebook page in retaliation. (Because, come on. What else can you really do with this kind of injustice when a million-dollar corporation is involved?)

I left a couple witty jabs here and there (that'll show 'em,) and was getting ready to return to my home page, when what to my wondering eyes should appear?

Five people...

in the Applebee's banner...

choking down some invisible wang.

My mission was clear.

Can I just say, it should not be as hard as it was to find adequate love-sausage via Google? I initially typed in "wieners," thinking that would yield enough results, and was disappointed severely. "Alright, Meaty... I guess we're going to do this the hard way." Hur hur. Get it? Hard? Like cock? Yeah. But even when I'd resigned myself to using more.. direct terminology... searches for the likes of "wang" "dicks" "cocks" and even good ol' fashioned "penis" didn't give me a lot to work with. In a frustrated frenzy, I typed in "juicy porn cock."

The flood gates opened.

Everything I type sounds like an innuendo now.

I can't see anything without realizing how it could be transformed into a phallus.

You know how if you say a word a lot, eventually you get to a point where you're like, "Wait, is this a word? Is this still right?" That happens when you stare at high-res cocks up close in photoshop long enough, too. Just so you're aware. When you stare into the cock-filled abyss, the cock-filled abyss stares right the fuck back atcha, kiddo.

Honestly, it was so disturbing that I almost gave up after five minutes, but then I remembered that I had promised some people on Facebook that I would do this horrible deed. And I am one OP who always delivers.

So... I'll just let the pictures tell the rest of this story, because my fucking brain and soul hurt. And then I'm going to go take a shower and try to ignore the fact that my sister, cousin, mother, boss, and god knows who else all read this blog.

(Get ready for the NSFW. No one's around? K. Scroll.)

You know what the sickest fucking part of this blog post is? As I read and proofread, and get down to the bottom... when I finally get to this last image, I'm like, "where are the dicks?" The subtlety is lost on me after staring at them for the past hour, I guess. There's six fucking shlongs in that image, and that's not enough?

It's been a while since I've dumped my brain poop on you lovely folk, and I figure it's time for some updates. Here's what ol' Meaty's been up to: (I call myself "Meaty" in my head sometimes... Meteoroflgy... Meaty.... when you say it out loud, it makes sense. Or not. I don't have to fucking impress you.)

Christmas:
Biffles and I had an absolutely delightful Christmas. I didn't even have to drug his fwuffy face during the commute! Please don't misunderstand this to mean that he wasn't a holly jolly asshole, because he totally was. But a more well-behaved holly jolly asshole nonetheless. Biffles received an electronic drinking fountain for Christmas, too, which he enjoys splashing in and emptying on a regular basis. It sounds like a toddler in a wading pool. I'd try to discipline him not to, but honestly, he wears the pants in that apartment. I'm just the maid.

If you want to fuck with this, be my guest, but I know better.

Speaking of Mr. Biffles, one present I received in particular had a large amount of time, thoughtfulness, and love poured into it, and I must give a shout-out to the aforementioned prezzy. (Though this should not diminish the awesomeness of the down comforter, TV, and various other prezzies. No idea why I'm calling them "prezzies," either. I'll stop that.) But this one... this one had a lot of heart and soul, folks. Mr. Biffles has been immortalized in a beautiful oil painting by my friend Kayleigh, whose name you should totally click on and admire her other works. Look at this masterpiece:

Beautiful.

In short, I received lots of wonderful things from lots of wonderful people, had a great time with my family, got to catch up with a good friend, and even got back in town before the Snowpacalypse.

Snowpacalypse:
The only downside of Christmas this year was the need to cut my visit an evening short, which put me back in Bloomington on the evening of the 25th. The reason for this abrupt departure was the impending Snowpacalypse. There are many things to love about large quantities of snow in Indiana: Wet shoes and pants legs, frozen pipes, car accidents; but the thing I think I admire most is the way our state (and this is doubly true for the city of Bloomington) decides to (not) handle adverse weather situations, with (no) efficiency and (zero fucking) intelligence. Let's run through the procedure, shall we?

Become aware of impending blizzard conditions, including high wind gusts, snow drifts, and a good foot and a half of snow and ice.

DO NOT, under any circumstances, pre-treat the roads. For the love of god, we cannot let the snow know we are afraid of it.

Contemplate the fact that, although the roads are passable at the morning commute hour, allowing people to get on the roads will leave them stranded at their destinations by early afternoon.

Ignore the ever-living fuck out of step three.

Declare snow emergency around noon, when everyone has already trekked it into work, and make it illegal to be on the road except for emergencies.

Chuckle. Chuckle like a motherfucker.

Sickpacalypse and the Stink Bug Shuffle:

In the grand tradition of being me during the winter months, I have been bed/couchridden for the past 11 days and counting. I finally hauled ass into work today because I've managed to burn through an entire year's worth of sick days in the first part of January. I do believe it's some sort of cold/sinus infection/throaty hybrid of pain and fuckery.

I think the novelty of having me around all day, every day, wore off for Biffles around day 4 or 5. You know how some animals have that instinct of knowing when you're upset, or sick, and tend to be extra comforting souls? No? Yeah, neither does Biffles. He spent the whole time clawing any dangling limbs as I slept, using me as a trampoline, and begging for treats.

We did finally team up on Sunday evening, though, to face the mightiest of foes.

Or, you know.... a stink bug. >_>

Don't you fucking judge me. Stink bugs are disgusting. All bugs are disgusting, but the stink bug has that extra special air of terror about it. What the fuck are you? Are you a beetle? Do you bite? Why are you shaped like that? Why are you called "stink" bug? Are you going to perfume my house with something awful?

If you're still laughing at me, let me just break this shit down for you:

They're pure, concentrated, sticky-footed evil. Period. Why are the sticky feet worth noting, you ask? Because when those motherfuckers land on you, and you find yourself shrieking "GET OFF ME! GET THE FUCK OFF ME! WHY IS THIS HAPPENING?!" you will find the answer in three simple words: sticky fucking feet. Where's your God now?

Anyway, Biffles thought he was going to befriend it, but once that thing got airborne, he wanted nothing else to do with it. I decided to get in the shower, in the hopes that he'd man-up and kill the little beast for me. When I first got out, all seemed well. But then, out of nowhere.... the flapping of wing and the smell of hate returned. That thing flew right over my head and landed on the wall above the couch. After the initial shock of this near-death experience wore off, we regrouped and came up with a plan.

By that, I mean he meowed at it for a bit, and I watched. Eventually, it flew up to a light fixture, and when it did, Biffles and I sprinted away from it like the helpless little girls we'd become. It landed, and I grabbed the nearest weapon available: Febreeze air freshener. (Interjection: I don't know why the first instinct when encountering insects has always been to grab the nearest aerosol, but it has yet to prove effective. It usually just pisses them off and makes them fly around even more erratically. I don't recommend it, though admittedly, I'll probably keep doing it.) Eventually, blinded by the musky, delightful scent of Moroccan Bazaar, he made the fatal error of landing in my bedroom door frame. I sprinted into the room - as did Biffles - and slammed it shut.

The battle was finally won, and the peasants rejoiced with Spaghetti-Os and Cinderella. Fin.

This concludes today's catching-up session. Even when I'm on sabbatical from blogging, I am occasionally known to say humorous things on Facebook and Twitter, should you feel like befriending me. And if you don't, fine. May a thousand stink bugs visit you in your sleep.